Should You (or I) Self-Publish? Part One
I could always tell when Dad was going to make his four-hour spaghetti. He would haul out a metal contraption and bolt it to Mother’s bread board. Sporting primitive funnel and hand crank, it looked like a medieval torture device for dolls. Into the funnel Dad would drop onion wedges and celery stalks. Out of the bottom would slither glistening, pale green snakes. Right now, that’s how my brain feels–my thoughts, like the onion and celery, twisted and inextricable. The…